


Somewhere In Your Memory

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: She always remembered. That was her curse. Well, one of them, anyway. Reincarnation was curse enough on its own, but in addition, she remembered, with perfect clarity, every single life she had lived. Of course, she didn’t remember them immediately. She would learn and grow as any child would, believing this was the only life she had.Then… she would see him.





	Somewhere In Your Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is an earworm that’s been pestering me for weeks. I’ve tried pushing it away and focusing on my many WIPs (honestly, I have!) but this one wouldn’t leave me alone. Just a little AU TFP goodness. Enjoy!

She always remembered. That was her curse. Well, one of them, anyway. Reincarnation was curse enough on its own, but in addition, she remembered, with perfect clarity, every single life she had lived. Of course, she didn’t remember them immediately. She would learn and grow as any child would, believing this was the only life she had.

Then… she would see _him_.

That was all it ever took. One glance, and a thousand memories rushed to the surface, each one filled with him. His face… his voice… his brilliant mind… his love. And with each new meeting, she hoped that _this time_ would be the time he remembered her, too.

He never did.

He always loved her… but he never remembered her. Not that she knew of, that is.

After her third reincarnation—in the midst of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign—she began to notice a pattern. In every lifetime, she remained hopeful and unguarded in her love for him. And inevitably, after her every “first” declaration of love, something would prevent him from saying it back. And then, he would die.

She knew he felt it, knowing and loving him as well as she did. He always tried to suppress it, but it shone through him, his actions speaking where his voice would not. Still… it would be nice to hear. But it seemed she was doomed to be denied that pleasure, for as long, and as many times, as she lived.

During this, her sixth life, Molly Hooper maintained her usual, cheerful attitude, and as ever, allowed the hope to bloom. He was far more obstinate this time around, more closed off and uncaring. Fear crept into her heart that his love would not be renewed. But perhaps, she decided, this was a good thing. Perhaps they were meddling with fate, letting their feelings show, and his many deaths served as fate’s cruel reminder of who was in charge. (She’d like to give fate a sharp slap to the face, but until fate appeared as a corporeal being, cursing under her breath would have to do.)

So, she kept a careful distance from Sherlock Holmes, only allowing herself to be part of his life when _he_ wanted her. She worked with him professionally, did her best to help him in all aspects, and loved him from afar. Of course, he didn’t make it easy on her. Between the drug use, the practiced insensitivity, and the all-too-frequent threats upon his life, she felt this time, he might just be the death of _her!_

One particular day, she found herself feeling especially weighed down and weary from six lifetimes of heartbreak, and on top of that, she’d developed a head cold. She left work early, dropped her coat and bag in a heap by the door, and headed straight for the kitchen, intent on making some tea. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she leaned over the sink, breathing deeply and massaging her aching temples. She was distantly aware of the kettle’s whistling, but it was the sound of her phone ringing which brought her out of her stupor.

Sherlock’s name flashed on the screen, and Molly found she just didn’t have the mental or physical energy to deal with him. She ignored the call and went on making her tea. When it rang a second time, just moments later, she sighed. Whatever it was, he would likely continue to pester her until she at least heard him out. Wiping her hands, she grabbed the phone and answered with resignation.

“Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent? ‘Cause I’m not having a good day.”

“Molly, I just need you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, “Oh, God. Is this one of your stupid games?”

“No, it’s not a game, I… need you to help me.”

“Look, I’m not at the lab,” she asserted, turning back to her tea. _Please let him get the hint._

“It’s not about that.”

 _Damn_. “Well… quickly, then.” She waited for an explanation, but he remained infuriatingly silent. After a moment, her patience ran out. “Sherlock! What is it? What do you want?”

“Molly, please,” he said at last, “without asking why, just say these words.”

 _What an odd request_ , she thought, smiling a bit. “What words?”

“I love you.”

Her humor fled, and was replaced with a burning anger. How could he? Even if he didn’t remember her, he _had_ to know of her feelings for him. It wasn’t as if she’d been very good at hiding them. Past lives or not, it was a shit thing for him to do, and she wasn’t having it. She lowered her phone, casting it a menacing glare. “Leave me alone,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, and made to disconnect the call.

“Molly, no!” she heard him shout. “ _Please_ , no! Don’t hang up! Do _not_ hang up!”

She should have done it anyway, but something in his voice gave her pause. Still, not about to give in just because he asked her to, she demanded, “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?”

“Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me,” There was a moment of silence, then he spoke again, his tone calmer, and almost patronizing. “Molly, this is for a case. It’s a sort of… experiment.”

If he thought that was going to help him, he was bloody wrong. “I’m not an experiment, _Sherlock_ ,” she said in a cold, deadly whisper.

“No, I know you’re not an experiment, you’re my friend. We’re friends, but... please. Just… say those words for me.”

She heard it then, the desperation in his voice. Something was wrong, and for whatever reason, he very much wanted her to say it. But she knew what would happen if she did. Fear combined with her anger, causing her hands to tremble. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear losing him again.

“Please don’t do this,” she begged, her throat beginning to tighten. “Just… just… don’t do it.”

“It’s very important,” he pressed. “I can’t say why, but I promise you, it is.”

“I can’t say that, I can’t…” she swallowed thickly, the terror claiming her voice for a moment. She breathed deep, and tried again. “I can’t say that to you.”

“Of course you can! Why can’t you?” His desperation had increased, and Molly worried for him. What reason could he have to ask this of her? But she fought back, more afraid of his loss than of anything else.

“You know why.”

“No, I _don’t_ know why,” he snapped.

Molly was losing her patience with him again. She wiped her wrist over her nose to suppress the tingle that accompanied her tears. “Of course you do,” she sighed.

“Please, just say it.”

She shook her head, though of course, he couldn’t see it. “I can’t. Not to you.”

“Why?”

 _Because it’ll kill you, damn it!_ There was nothing for it. She would have to give a little… but perhaps… he would be satisfied, even if she didn’t say the exact words. Then again… what if an indirect admission was still enough to… oh, he’d never let it go if she didn’t at least try…

“Because it… it’s true,” she finished the sentence in a barely audible whisper, frightened of what the outcome would be. When she heard no explosions, gunshots, or cries of agony, her courage rose, and she said it again, this time loud enough for him to hear. “Because it’s… _true_ , Sherlock. It’s always been… true…” she added, thinking of their many lives, which he would never remember.

“Well, if it’s true, just say it anyway,” he said tonelessly.

Molly laughed bitterly. Of course he wasn’t satisfied, the arse. If things weren’t just the way he wanted… “You bastard,” she sighed.

“Say it anyway,” he repeated, over enunciating every syllable.

Well, fine. If she was going to be forced through this hell yet again, she’d do it on her terms. And in their next life (if there was a next life), she’d give him hell right back. Besides… just this once… she deserved to hear it.

“You say it,” she requested calmly. “Go on. You say it first.”

“What?” he rasped.

“Say it,” she ordered in the firmest voice she could manage. “Say it like you mean it.”

There was a long silence, and Molly wondered if she’d already lost him. Then she heard his voice, quiet and hesitant. She closed her eyes and held her phone more firmly against her ear, focusing entirely on the words she may never hear again.

“I… I love you.”

Molly exhaled shakily, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. She pressed her thumb against them to contain all that she was feeling. After centuries of loving him, she’d finally heard the words… even if she had forced them out of him. It was torture and bliss in equal measure.

Then he said it again.

“I love you,” he breathed, the words seeming to tumble out almost effortlessly. And she noted a tone of wonder, as if he had made some sort of incredible discovery.

Her eyes fell closed again for a moment, then she pulled the phone away to look at it with trepidation. It was her turn now, time to say those cursed words. A lump lodged itself in her throat as she brought the phone close to her mouth. She distantly heard Sherlock saying her name, and she swallowed the lump down.

“Molly, _please!_ ” he begged.

She took a breath, and…

“I love you.”

The line went dead, and Molly could swear her heart died right along with it. She threw the phone to the counter and succumbed to the tears she had been fighting. As her sobs increased, she sank to the floor, letting the grief consume her.

* * *

Molly awoke several hours later, if the faint, orange-y light filtering in through the kitchen window was any indication. She'd fallen asleep on the kitchen floor, her tea and phone still on the counter. She glowered at her phone, as if it were the cause of her misery, then dumped the cold tea into the sink. She quickly made a fresh cup, trudged into her bedroom, and sat on the bed.

She felt numb. Empty. Devoid of the emotions that had so overwhelmed her. Sherlock was gone. Again. She’d lost him, _again_. And though past experience might lead her to believe the odds were in favor of another meeting, she wasn’t convinced. Perhaps she was being overly pessimistic. Perhaps she was simply heartbroken, and needed time to move past this latest loss of the man she loved. Whatever the case, she couldn’t bring herself to deal with it now. She just sat there, drinking tea and feeling numb.

Once her tea was gone, she set the cup on her bedside table and lay on her side, not bothering to pull the covers over her. Toby hopped up and curled into a ball beside her, hoping to comfort his mistress. It almost worked… but not quite. She lay quietly for several minutes, before falling asleep yet again.

* * *

A loud, thunderous banging, combined with Toby’s indignant screech, jolted her out of her slumber. She blinked a few times, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and watching Toby slink out of her room. The thundering sound came again, and she recognized it as someone pounding on the door. Glancing at the clock, she read the time as 1:36am. She groaned and plopped down onto the bed again. Whoever it was could just bugger off and--

“ _Molly!_ ”

She shot up at the sound of a voice she would know anywhere. _It can’t be..._ She scrambled off the bed and raced down the corridor, pausing only long enough to yank her front door open.

Her breath caught in her chest. There he stood. Sherlock bloody Holmes, in all his glory… though he didn’t seem to feel particularly glorious. His eyes were downcast, red-rimmed and haunted, his shoulders hunched, and his every breath shuddered on its way in. Her immediate shock at his appearance, and at the fact that he was _still alive_ , melted into concern as she saw the state he was in.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

His eyes traveled slowly from her shoes, where they had been resting, up to her face. After a few more trembling breaths, he whispered, “ _Maírín_.”

It took her a moment to register what he’d said, specifically that he’d spoken her nearly forgotten first name, from her first life. When it dawned on her, tears sprang to her eyes, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob.

“You remember?”

He nodded once. “ _Alban Heruin_ , year 968. After my ship was all but destroyed, I had no choice but to remain on land until it was repaired. I was irritable and even depressed from the change. You dragged me to the festival, determined to cheer me up. You had yellow flowers in your hair.” A faint smile curved the corners of his lips. “Even then, you had a certain affinity for yellow. No wonder I always associate it with you.”

Molly gave a tearful laugh. “And you’ve always been the blue-green color of the sea. _Caiptean Uilleam_ ,” she added almost playfully.

Sherlock’s smile grew for a moment, but his expression sobered immediately. The haunted look was back in his eyes. “You told me you loved me that night. And then…”

There was no need for him to go on; Molly knew very well what happened _then_. She could still hear the cries from the revelers and the clang of swords, as a band of enemy pirates came to exact their revenge on the young captain. They succeeded.

Clearly reliving the same horrific moment, Sherlock drew another deep breath, and in a soft, broken voice, asked, “Why?”

She gnawed on her lip for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Why have we always been torn apart?” he persisted, voice shaking and eyes darting about wildly. “And why _now_ have we not? Or, are we just somehow delaying the inevitable, and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop? What happens now?”

“I don't know, Sherlock. I don't have any answers for you.” She swallowed when her emotions tightened her throat again. “All I know is… for the first time, in all these years… I got to hear you say it.”

He met her gaze, and a light seemed to flicker behind his eyes. “She knew.”

Molly frowned. “Sorry?”

“She must have,” he breathed, running both hands down his face. “Why else would she… I mean, aside from the obvious… no, she had to have known!”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” she shouted, effectively silencing him and regaining his attention. “What on Earth are you going on about?”

He sighed. “I don't know if I can adequately explain. My mind is going faster than even _I_ thought possible, trying to keep up with all the data being thrown at me.” Suddenly, his knees buckled, and he just managed to catch himself on the door frame. “Might I come in and sit down?”

“Yes, of course!” Molly shifted to one side, giving him room to move into the house and toward the sitting room. He collapsed onto the sofa, and Molly sat gingerly beside him, aware of his every move.

In her mind, she echoed one question of his: _What happens now?_ She had never been in this situation with him before, both having expressed their love, both remembering every past life. She couldn't help but empathize with him, knowing firsthand how it felt to have old memories forced into her brain. He must be utterly exhausted. Molly waited patiently for him to catch up with his thoughts. She'd waited this long, she could handle a few minutes more.

“I'm sorry.” She looked up at him to find his eyes already on her, wide and penitent and sad, and more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him.

“What for?”

He exhaled a sharp, humorless laugh. “Where to start? I’ve got half a dozen lifetimes of avoiding your love to make up for… and a very unfortunate phone call as the cherry on top.”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t care about the past. I care about here and now.” She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, biting her lip in thought. “As for the phone call, I have a feeling you’re not ready to explain. And that’s all right. I don’t need every question answered tonight. Just one.” Mustering her courage, Molly lifted her gaze to his. “Did you mean it?”

Sherlock leaned forward abruptly, clasping her hand in both of his. He brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss into her palm, his eyes boring into hers. “How could I not?” he breathed in that low, spine-tingling voice of his.

She smiled tearfully. “Then say it again.”

Returning her smile, he brought his free hand to rest against her cheek. Molly fought to keep her eyes open, afraid missing even one moment of this. His thumb traced her cheekbone, causing a shiver to trickle down her spine. _Dear God…_ Surely, this was where destiny had been leading them all along. Everything about this heavenly moment felt completely right.

Finally, he whispered, “I love you, Molly Hooper.”

Giddy laughter bubbled up and escaped her throat before she could stop it, while tears simultaneously rolled down her cheeks. He caught each one and rubbed them away, his own eyes seeming a bit wet. She reached out a hand and cupped it against his face. “God, I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much.”

Slowly, never taking his eyes away from her, he moved in close, his intent obvious. Molly looked down at his lips, and she began to close her eyes… only to feel a sudden urge to sneeze. She gasped and pulled back, holding her nose in one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“I, erm…” she muttered behind her hands, “I have a head cold.”

He blinked twice. “A _head cold?_ ” he repeated incredulously.

Blushing furiously, she lowered her hands. “Yes, a head cold! It’s been awful, and I don’t want you getting it!”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake!”

Sherlock gripped her face in both hands, and their lips collided in their first kiss. In the back of her mind, Molly wondered why in the hell she bothered resisting, and _how_ in the hell she could have lived six lives without ever kissing him. However, such thoughts were soon forgotten, as she focused on the sounds and sensations the kiss elicited. His lips were softer than she’d ever imagined, and they caressed hers expertly, while his hands wound around her waist and slid just under the hem of her jumper, leaving a burning trail across her skin.

“I don’t care about some bloody head cold,” he murmured against her mouth. Drawing back a bit, he gave her a boyish grin. “We’ve waited long enough now, don’t you think?”

“Dear God, yes,” she sighed, and yanked his head back down for another searing kiss.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly never deciphered the reason behind their many lives. Though Sherlock’s sister, Eurus, did in fact confirm her knowledge of their situation, not even she could provide an explanation. And as the years passed—happy, exciting, blissful years—they found they no longer cared. Instead, they focused on living, and on loving one another completely.

The couple spent fifty years together, forty-nine of those years as husband and wife. They had four children they adored, and doted on all seventeen grandchildren. When death once again claimed them both, they parted from this world with no regrets, and an abundance of love in their hearts. On a shared headstone, beneath the names of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Margaret Alice Hooper-Holmes, an epitaph was engraved: _Together at last_.

They would never be parted again.


End file.
